


The Juniper Tree

by Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Earth Day, F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Growing Old Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger/pseuds/Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger
Summary: Every April since 1970, Newt plants a sapling in celebration of Earth Day. Because we all know that Newt would be a hardcore environmentalist. Simple fluff. Elderly!Newtina





	The Juniper Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Earth Day, everyone~

Dorset 1985

* * *

 

 Tina really thinks that her husband should be using a proper spell to be digging around the yard with, but he insists on doing things the no-maj way, as usual, with a shovel and trowel. His crooked leg unbalances him; he has been compensating for that since before they even met, but it has become more prominent with age. It is, so to speak, not a reliable leg to stand on.

 In the kitchen sink, Tina permits her hands to fuss over the roots of a juniper sapling, massaging the dirt-coated tendrils loose from the matting that had formed from spending its first year of life in an earthenware pot. She pauses and marvels at how the raised veins on the back of her hands mimics the roots. The pot is deceptively plain-looking—it is a gift that was given to Newt decades ago during a research trip to the Amazon by a native tribe. Though it lacks any decoration, a muddy charcoal color riddled with fingerprints, it is made of  _terra preta de indio_ , Indian black soil, and it nourishes whatever is planted in at with a healthfulness that even the most potent of magical manures can’t manage. They’ve been using it for seedlings for some 30-odd years and its potency has never waned.

 Newt and Tina have been planting saplings every April since 1970, when they attended the first Earth Day celebration in New York. Ever the environmentalist, it has been his favorite holiday for the last 15 years. He still corresponds with Gaylord Nelson through the post and they spend a few pounds a year to call him in Wisconsin every Earth Day evening to share their exploits—though Newt and Tina have fewer and fewer of those with every passing year.

 She wears one of Newt’s old butchering aprons to keep the mud off of her blouse and trousers—navy blue embroidered with tiny pink flowers, it is her favorite shirt. The apron still has faded floral ruffles clinging to it as trim and there is a little niffler embroidered on the left pocket to seal a sizable hole torn into it by a particularly excitable moke lizard. She stopped using straightening serums on her hair decades ago, and her cheeks are framed with her natural  _leefa_  ringlets, now salt-and-pepper gray.

 One of the new litter of kneazels, a tortoiseshell they’ve named Pippin, arches against Tina’s ankles, mewling for second breakfast. Tina clucks at her chidingly and pushes the gluttonous creature away with her foot.

 Casting a water-repellant charm on the apron, Tina settles the sapling into her right pocket, rinses the sink of debris, and steps outside into the late morning sunshine. She notes that the fairy feeder outside needs to be refilled with nectar. Pippin prowls after her.

 Newt is standing, observing his handiwork with an analytical eye as he wipes the soil from his hand onto a yellow handkerchief—it serves no real purpose, seeing as he is just going to get them dirty again in a few moments. He has foregone gloves and shaped the hole in the ground with his bare hands. The ground is soaked; the soil he pulled up having been saturated with water to make the replanting as quick and stable as possible. He looks up at her as she approaches, eyes glinting through diamond-shaped glasses.

 “This would be  _easier_  if you just used a  _gouging spell_ ~” She sing-songs at him teasingly as she surrenders the juniper.

 Newt gives her a crooked smile and takes the sapling from her, kneeling to bury it. His eyebrows grow bushier and wilder every year, she thinks. He needs to trim his beard soon. “Oh, it would be, but digging a hole with my wand would eradicate the entire point.”

 Tina crosses her arms above him as the plant settles against the bottom of the hole. Newt chases it with handfuls of mud, packed gently into the crevices. “Pretty sure there are no rules about  _how_  to plant a tree for Earth Day. Using a little magic isn’t cheating.”

 “Well, it’s the  _principal_  of the thing.” His tone is tart.

 “And that principle would be?”

 He purses his lips at the juniper as he fumbles for an answer, fingering the needles affectionately. They both know full well that he does it manually out of stubbornness rather than any kind of practicality. “The principle of hard work. Then again I  _could_  just be foolishly sentimental, you know, I’ve been accused of it  _many_  times.”

 “ _You_? Sentimental?” Tina raises her silver eyebrows in mock surprise. “I wonder who told you  _that_ ; I don’t believe  _that_  for a  _second_.” She teases. For a moment she sobers up, pulling her bottom lip anxiously between her teeth. “You’re going to regret this later when your arthritis acts up.”

 “ _Tina_ , I’m eighty-eight, not one hundred and eight. Besides, what do you think I married you for?  _Certainly not_  because you’re beautiful and clever and strong and compassionate and look  _fantastic_  with silver in your hair—”

 “Newt…”

 “—really, we both established years ago that I married you for your talent in giving  _foot_   _massages_. It’s as simple as that!”

 “Oh, you’re incorrigible!” She complains, but she’s smiling, her cheeks a landscape of laugh lines.

 His hair is as pale, wispy, and curly as summer clouds. She reaches down to run her fingers through it, her thickened knuckles going into hiding, and he leans reverently into her touch with a happy sigh.

 With one last pat to the newly planted tree Newt stands, knees popping audibly enough to make them both wince. He neglects to wipe the dirt from his palms, instead reaching up to cradle his wife’s face and pull her into a kiss. Mud smears across her cheeks.

 “Newt!” Tina laughs, “Your hands are filthy!”

 He rolls his tongue along her bottom lip and grins against her mouth. “Are you complaining, Mrs. Scamander?”

 “Yes!”

 “What an awful shame! Because you see…” He drops suddenly, pulling her down with him when she instinctively reaches to catch him. He loses the better part of his breath when his back hits the ground, immediately followed by his chest getting crushed as he serves as Tina’s personal cushion. His arms are around her waist before she can recover and he rolls them through the grass, coating them in dew and mud. His glasses have gone askew, fringe sticking up comically, and he has fresh grass stains on his elbows, but he isn’t impeded.

 “…I have always rather had fun doing dirty work with you.”

 “You’re terrible!”

 “Perhaps, but you should have  _known_  that when you  _married_  me.” He sing-songs at her.

 Tina reaches for the soil beneath her, grasps a clump, and jams her mud-slicked hand into her husband’s impish face. It utterly fails to wipe away his smile. If anything, it widens. His hazel eyes glitter wickedly at her.

 “Oh,  _Newt_ , don’t you  _dare_ —!”

 He digs his hands into the mud, retracts them, and dives for her, dragging his nimble fingers down her shirt and tickling her at the waist. Tina squeals and tries to curl in on herself—impossible with her husband straddling her legs, alas, but she manages to buck him around a bit, though this only encourages him to redouble his efforts and attack her armpits.

 “Your hair hasn’t been this dark in  _years_ , love! A  _lovely_  shade of brown,  _truly_!”

 Between convulsions of hysterics, Tina manages to hook one of her legs around his thigh and flip them. She can feel the mud soaking through the back of her blouse—he is the luckiest man on earth that mud doesn’t stain. It drips from her hair to freckle Newt’s cardigan. His glasses have nearly fallen off the tip of his nose entirely, but he is still grinning like a little boy. The vibrancy of the grass flatters his freckles.

 “ _Two_  can play  _that_  game, Mister Scamander.”

 “I’m sure you can.” He captures her chin and draws her to him. The kiss is earthen and slightly gritty and she can’t help but sigh into his mouth.

 “I shall never tire of loving you.”

 He presses a line of kisses to the soft, draping folds of her neck, gently stroking the skin behind her ear with one thumb.

 “What do you say we continue this inside?” He asks, his voice smoky and low.

 One of her hands slinks its way under both his cardigan to pinch him though his shirt. “I hope you intend to wash up first!”

 She feels him smile against her collarbone. “Well, I  _was_  thinking we could do that as a group activity, but if you’d rather take care of  _yourself_ …”

 “You know I only married you for your skills in giving a good sponge bath.”

 He laughs.

 Their dirty shoes are abandoned at the door to the kitchen, and from there they leave a trail of discarded garments leading from the dining room and down the hall, socks, trousers, shirts. The door to the bathroom lingers open for a moment before Newt’s hand slinks out to hang his necktie on the knob. There is nobody home but the two of them and therefore the necktie has nobody to warn of the intimacy happening behind closed doors, but, well… it’s the principle of the thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Indian black soil is a real, man-made soil found in the Amazon basin, created between 450bc and 950ad, which is still greatly potent to this day. Amazingly, it regenerates itself at a rate of 1cm per year, even though it has been thousands of years since their creation. It is possible to create your own black soil, but no one has yet been able to replicate, in full, the potent effects of black soil deposits found in the Amazon. The Biocultural Regeneration in High Amazon, Peru produces the best synthetic terra preta soil to date.
> 
>  Juniper trees are a symbol of a great journey, having taken many twists and turns yet staying true to yourself. Also, the wiggentree featured in Fantastic Beasts looked awfully like a juniper tree to me.
> 
>  Gaylord Nelson is the founder of Earth Day, and I’m hoping to follow this fic up with one about 69/73 year old Mr and Mrs Scamander and Mr. Nelson working together in 1970 to set up the first Earth Day in Central Park--I just need to do more research on it.
> 
>  Personally, I like the idea of Tina actually having a crazy curly jewfro, but she straightens it to seem more “professional.” Because she’s Jewish and why the hell not? It gives her character another layer of texture to work with.
> 
> ~MegiiJ


End file.
